Born and raised in San Antonio, Pickett Porterfield is an aspiring writer and avid wanderer. He has lived in Mexico and traveled extensively throughout the United States, Europe, Latin America, Southeast Asia, and North Africa. For more tales from the travel trail, check out his previous blogs at Postcards Home.

Note: This is an mySA.com City Brights Blog. These blogs are not written or edited by mySA or the San Antonio Express-News. The authors are solely responsible for the content.

Bombay Daze

BOMBAY, India—I’m hesitant to tread down the slippery slope of hyperbole, but I think it’s safe to say that Julianna and I are hopelessly smitten with Bombay. For years my imagination has jumped at the very mention of the name of this glorious, swarthy city by the sea, and I’m so pleased to discover that it’s even more magical than I’d hoped.

Bombay’s landmark Victoria Terminus train station.

Built on a series of islands clinging to the western shores of the mainland, Bombay was christened by the Portuguese in 1534 as Bom Bahia (Good Bay). The British took possession in the mid 1600s and Anglicized the name to Bombay. The city exploded in population and wealth during the American Civil War when it became a major supplier of cotton to the Confederacy, and by most accounts has never looked back since. In the middle of the 19th Century the British began a series of land reclamation projects to join the many islands into one, and the work continues to this day. In 1996 the city was officially renamed Mumbai, but most locals still refer to it as Bombay. Perhaps this is simply out of habit, or maybe they, like myself, prefer the more romantic sound of the city’s original name.

Classic Art Deco on Bombay's Marine Drive

You’ve got to hand it to the British. Despite the myriad injustices of colonialism, they left behind a stupefying architectural legacy. But it’s more than just the miles of gorgeous Gothic government buildings, the rows of dusty Art Deco apartments and movie theaters with names like Belvedere Terrace and The Regal, and street names like Wodehouse Road and Chowpatty Seaface that imbue Bombay with an irresistible vibe of bygone colonial atmosphere. It’s the little things too, like the flaking shutters on the shady upstairs veranda of a sagging mansion overlooking a tree lined street; the faded gold lettering on a turn-of-the-century storefront window that says, “Baker and Sons, Fine Tailors Since 1908;” or the sign on a vine-covered Victorian building announcing the headquarters of the “Bombay Lawn Tennis Association.”

A cricket match on Oval Maidan in front of Bombay High Court.

It’s not all nostalgia though. Bombay is also the richest city in India and home to the Bollywood film industry, the most prolific in the world, with more than 68,000 films having been produced since the first talkie hit the silver screen in 1931. There’s a whole subculture here of elites: movie stars, pop culture glitterati, millionaires, titans of industry, even a fare share of billionaires. The streets are awash with gleaming BMW 750LI sedans and slinky Jaguar XJ coupes sharing the right-of-ways with the usual Indian menagerie of beat up buses, tiny hatchbacks, battered jalopies and wheeled contraptions that defy all conventions.

One of thousands of Bombay's pint-sized 1950s Premier taxis.

Despite all the colonial charm and modern nouveau-riche schmaltz, there’s a seething underbelly to Bombay. The disparities of wealth here are unfathomable. Right in the middle of the city is the largest slum in Asia, where more than a million people subsist on a 535-acre patch of land sandwiched between two commuter rail lines, and where there purportedly is but one toilet for every 17,000 people. Even in the rich parts of town beggars and disfigured panhandlers ply their trade, where they’re mercilessly shooed away by restaurant and store employees if they get too close to an open-air doorway.

Inside the Victoria Terminus, through which more than 2.5 million commuters pass every day.

We’re staying in a cheap but atmospheric traveler’s hotel in a crumbling old Victorian building in the historic Colaba neighborhood in southern Bombay. Directly across the street stands the sumptuous Taj Majal Palace Hotel, built in 1903, that was severely damaged in the 2008 bombing attacks. It’s long since been repaired and re-opened for business, but armored police vehicles and cops with AK-47s stand vigil outside its entrances day and night. I can’t make up my mind if I should be reassured or alarmed by this constant show of force.

A typical sidewalk sugarcane juice stand.

A family lives on the sidewalk just below our hotel’s upstairs veranda. They sit on the curb all day and night amidst a pile of plastic bags filled with their belongings. A cooking fire fueled by shards of broken wood pallets smolders inside a stack of bricks, on top of which rest two blackened pots they use to cook their meals. A gaggle of half-naked children scamper around in the streets, frolicking and wrestling on the pavement while motorcycles and cars veer around them. The other evening a drunken beggar staggered by and fell down in the street. The husband of the family helped the man over to their sidewalk campsite and gave him a cup of water and some rice from their pot served on a piece of newspaper. Not five minutes later a spat of domestic violence erupted when the wife yelled at the husband. He threw a spoon at her and jumped up, slapping her across the face. The lady wiped blood from her nose with her sari and the man sat back down, scowling sullenly at her. A few minutes later a pot-bellied cop sauntered past, eyeing them contemptuously, and the husband darted off down the street. Moments later the drunkard was back on his feet staggering around and bellowing nonsensical gibberish. He fell down again, this time lying sprawled on his back, until another cop appeared who whacked him with a bamboo cane and yelled at him until he got up and teetered down the street.

Just around the corner from our hotel is the Royal Bombay Yacht Club, a stupendously gorgeous five-story 1846 Gothic edifice facing the waters of the harbor. When we walked past the entrance the other day I couldn’t resist the temptation to peek inside, but when I asked the crisply-starched concierge if I could take a look around the lobby he pointed coolly to the brass plaque on the wall that said “Members Only” and mumbled something under his stiff upper lip that I took to mean, “Get lost, peasant.” Julianna and I tiptoed away feeling appropriately unworthy.

A family cooks dinner in the street just below our hotel's upstairs veranda.

The other afternoon we ventured over to the Bombay High Court, one of the city’s premier landmarks built in 1878. Facing the green cricket fields of Oval Maidan, the block-long High Court’s towering neo-Gothic spires soar above the palm trees shading its leafy gardens. Surprisingly, just about anyone can wander freely around the maze-like corridors and verandas of the complex, peeking into oak-paneled courtrooms and listening to cases being tried. It’s a hive of activity, as harried barristers in frilly black robes with stacks of dockets under their arms rush back and forth between the chambers amidst crowds of citizens there to plea their cases. One of the barristers I chatted with told me that all court proceedings in India are conducted in English, and then showed me a stack of dockets, all written in familiar English legalese.

A few evenings ago we ventured over to the Intercontinental Hotel for a criminally expensive sunset beer at its rooftop bar overlooking Marine Drive, the famous quay along the shores of Back Bay lined with Art Deco buildings much like Miami’s South Beach. It’s also known as the Queen’s Necklace, for the twinkling streetlights dotting the 2-mile long arching seaside boulevard at night. While we sat enjoying the view from our overstuffed white linen chairs we couldn’t help feeling conspicuously out of place amidst the hip urban crowd sipping wine and cocktails at other tables.

An Indian cable-TV network was taping an episode of a food and wine show while we were there, and the hostess of the show asked if she could interview us. A bit surprised, we said sure, why not. She asked us several questions about our experience thus far in Bombay, our favorite restaurants here, etc., while the cameraman floated around our table catching different angles of our conversation. She asked for my email address when they’d finished taping and promised she’d send us the link to the show after the episode airs in April, but I’m sure the piece of paper I gave her long since ended up on the floorboard of her car or in the wastebasket next to the bar. We felt a bit ridiculous sitting there in shorts and ratty flip-flops, discussing Bombay’s culinary scene with the host of a food show, but nevertheless, it was one of those memorably spontaneous experiences you could never plan in advance.

We’ve spent a number of mornings reading the English-language Times of India newspaper over coffee at a little cafe down the street from our hotel. Yesterday Julianna read aloud a number of personal ads from the classified section that we found quite enchanting. Here are two of my favorites:

And not to be outdone, “A well-established Brahmin industrialist family invites alliance for only daughter, 5’2”, born 1975, looks 26 years old. Seeks professionally qualified, pleasing personality, teetotaling boy from reputed family. Proof of background and photo a must.”

After six days in Bombay we’re still in a daze. We’ve seen and experienced so many odd and wonderful things, I wish I could write about them all. What a beguiling, fascinating place this is. But this is our last day here and I’d rather not spend it staring at a computer screen, so I guess I’ll just leave it at that. We bought our train tickets yesterday for the 30-hour trip northeast to Varanasi tomorrow, and then it’s on to Calcutta for the final days of our time in India. Hope we see you all down the road.